


The Five Times I've Seen Ryan Ross Cry

by orphan_account



Series: Five Times [1]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: First Person, Homophobia, M/M, Ryden, Self-Harm, brendon's pov, idk it's not THAT sad, it's kind of.. . . . idk, repressed sexuality, wooo okay so basically it's not that bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4504593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan Ross never cried much. But there were times when he needed to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Time His Girlfriend Broke Up With Him

The band was doing well, yet we were struggling to find inspiration.  Ryan was our main source for lyrics and ideas so it was all up to him.  I had come up with a few lyrics and was eager to tell him my ideas when I saw him, crying on the floor of his room.

"Ryan?" I asked tentatively. This was the first time I had ever seen Ryan cry. He was one of the strongest people I knew, and it was a complete shock to see him so vulnerable and open. Ryan Ross--the boy who had always walled himself in and bid his emotions. 

He looked up at me with red, puffy eyes and smeared eyeliner. "Go away," he sniffles, lacking much anger.  I brought myself closer to him and sat next to his seemingly hollow shell of a body.

"W-what happened?" I asked after an uncomfortable silence of the two of us just sitting.

"She broke up with me. Said I didn't love her. She said I was  _gay_ , can you believe that?" he said to himself, letting out a bitter laughter on the word "gay".

I hesitated to say something because I didn't know Ryan had a girlfriend, or was straight. I faintly blushed and nodded. "Yeah, uh, that's crazy. You? Gay?" I knew I didn't sound believable, but hey, I was trying.

He looked at me with wide eyes. "Holy shit! You think I'm gay too, don't you?" I sheepishly nodded and scratched the back of my neck.  Ryan buried his face in his hands and murmured. "Fuck...I am not gay."

I quirked an eyebrow and looked at him and he rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine, I'm bisexual. But still! Fuck, I'm so angry. She was a little shit, too. She fucking cheated on me. I bet she just pretended I was gay as an excuse to break up with me."

"Wow, what a whore," I replied. Ryan sure wasn't a fucking angel, but he still was respectable and didn't deserve to be cheated on.

He smiled a bit and repeated, "A whore." I looked at him with a puzzled look. "Hey Brendon, I think I've got a new song idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this is written on an iPad so pardon the grammar errors.  
> Please leave comments and feedback!!!


	2. The Time I Met His Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written on my iPad so pardon any grammar errors.

Ryan and I grew close after the cheating whore incident, but I didn't know much about Ryan's personal and home life. Sometimes I wish I didn't know about it because it definitely wasn't pretty the day I found out.

"Ryan?" I called from outside his house. The band never stayed at Ryan's house, but I was lonely and desperate for attention or at least someone to hang with. A gruff, round man opened the door instead of the lanky, skinny boy I had expected.

"He's not here right now, boy. You don't want to see him anyway, the piece of shit. Leave." I was taken aback, but was too shocked to argue. As he closed the door, I saw Ryan on the flight of stairs. From the small glimpse of him, I saw his bruised face and shiny face, wet with tears.

I stared at the spotless, white wooden door that hid so many secrets behind it. Now I knew some of them, and I wasn't sure if I was happy to have found them out.  My head swam with worries, the mental image of Ryan's beat up face flashing repeatedly in my mind. I ran around his house and jumped their fence, my brain not even processing the amount of laws I was breaking in this moment.

All I could think of was Ryan. I wanted my boy to be okay. I hastily climbed up the tree in their backyard that led to the second floor. (The adrenaline was doing wonders for me since I failed gym class in my Junior year.) I scooted my way across the branch til I was close enough to tap on the glass.

I knocked on the window furiously until Ryan opened it, his expression turning from surprise to fear within a matter of seconds. "Brendon," he hissed, "what are you doing here?" Without answering him, I snaked through his window onto the carpeted floor. He blinked a couple times, as if he were checking if this event was actually happening to him or if it was a dream.

"I'm checking on you, dumbass."

"I'm fine," he snapped, attempting to scowl at me, but he only winced in pain since the muscles in his face were aching. 

"Ryan, what the fuck happened?"

He sighed and scratched his nose (an obvious nervous habit of his). "Look, my dad is just a bit of an asshole. He gets really drunk and...fuck, I don't know, Brendon."

"A bit of an asshole?" I exclaimed. "Child abuse doesn't make you a bit of an asshole, it makes you a fucking disgusting creature. Do the guys know? The  _cops_?"

The tears on his face were drying, but the bruises were still dark against his pale skin. "Yeah, Spencer knows. I can't call the cops on him, Brendon, he's my dad. And I'd have nowhere to go. I'd be sent to some fucking orphanage or something, I don't know. Look, just...please don't tell anyone. It isn't your place to say anything and--"

I cut him off with a tight hug and nodded. I snuck my way out the window again and I thought that was the end of my problems. But it wasn't.

The next week, Ryan didn't show up to any of our rehearsals, so I broke into his backyard again and fell through the window again (which for some reason wasn't locked). I heard a small gasp and something clutter to the ground. I looked up and saw it. His wrists. The blade. The blood. The red on the carpet. The tears that were hitting it.

"Ryan?" I asked accusingly. This wasn't like Ryan Ross. He wasn't weak. He didn't self harm. He didn't care what people thought or said. He was strong, he was strong for the band, for me. Right?

I asked again, "Ryan, what the fuck?"

And I heard his choked sobs harmonize with the endless  _drip drip drip_ of his tears. I tried to tear my eyes away from his bloodied wrists but I couldn't. I couldn't stop looking in horror. "I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm a worthless piece of shit, I'm sorry."

And I had never leapt up so fast in my life. I grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Ryan, don't. Please. I know it's a hard thing to ask of you but please don't. Fuck, the band, we...we love you and care and..."

"Brendon, just shut up. I don't give a shit anymore. I'm so numb it doesn't even hurt anymore. I can't  _feel anything_. And I want to so badly. I want to feel the pain, I want to feel the hatred, I want to feel the sorrow and love and happiness but I  _can't._ And I'm so--" and I couldn't take it anymore. I leaned forward and kissed him. Deeply. Passionately. I wanted him to know, to feel this so he didn't have to slit his wrists to feel things.  He could just remember the feeling of my lips against his, the dance of our tongues, and the desperation in my kiss because of how badly I wanted him. I wanted him to feel.

"Remember this," I whispered against his lips.

"Okay," he whispered back, drawing me in for another kiss.


	3. The Time His Dad Passed

The third time was at his dad's funeral.  It was quiet, small, lonesome.  Just like the man deserved.  Ryan didn't look any different at all--straightfaced, unwilling to show emotion.  But as soon as it was time for him to give his eulogy, he stormed off.  Which of course I followed him.  I found him sat at a park bench down the street.

"Ryan," I said gently.  He remained seated at the same place on the bench, looking coldly at the ground.  We weren't officially together, but we still talked, hung out, hugged, kissed, whatever.  We never confirmed--or denied--anything.  I sat next to him and tried to see what he was seeing.  He was looking at a puddle from last night's downpour on the ground.

"I'm angry," he whispered, as if I wasn't meant to hear.  And I didn't think I  _was_ meant to hear that, so I pretended as if I didn't.  He continued, "I'm angry because I miss him.  He doesn't deserve to be missed, yet I do.  He abused me.  He called me names.  He made me just as fucked up as he was.  He took me down with him on his sinking ship of misery and I miss him."

I took my eyes off of the puddle to look at Ryan, who had tears forming in the ducts of his eyes.  And for once, I didn't have anything to say.  I couldn't help him.  And he just leaned on my shoulder.  I rested my head on his and we just sat there together.  My hand grabbed his and our fingers intertwined.

After a few minutes of silence, I finally said, "You still have to give your eulogy."

He buried his face into the crook of my neck and said into my skin, "I can't."  I didn't know what to say to that.  I nodded.  It seemed like the boy was making me speechless countless times today.

I turned to him and said, "Ryan, look at me."  He looked up, his eyes lifeless and dull.

"It's okay to miss him.  Sometimes, we miss the people who hurt us.  And I know it sounds stupid, but we do.  We do because...when they hurt us, it shows at least that they feel  _something_ toward us.  It's a sign to show that we aren't numb.  But what we have to realize is that...that's the wrong kind of feeling people are supposed to give us.  When you see someone, your heart is supposed to flutter a-and...you're supposed to feel this warmth spread in your chest.  Your breath is supposed to hitch and you feel your fists tighten.  You get  _scared_ , but not because you fear the person.  You're afraid because you care about that person so much.  And they care about you.  A--"  I was about to go on, but I was cut off by Ryan's lips crashing into mine.  And he pulled me close, wrapping his arms around my neck as if I were the last thing in the world and he was clinging on to me.

He leaned his forehead against mine and I felt the wetness of his tears drip onto my cheeks, like he was sharing his pain and suffering with me so we could both hold it together.  And he finally whispered with a shaky breath, "I love you." His words hung in the air, but not like they were a burden.  It was as if he had said the three words that would set himself and myself free.  Because we had been so afraid to say it.  So I pulled him closer, our noses brushing and my breath ghosting over his lips.  My dark chocolate eyes reaching his hazel.  I couldn't bring myself to look away because I saw his fear, the fear of saying those three words.  And I knew he meant every. Single. Word.  

"I love you, too."


	4. The Time He Didn't Say It Back

and I just can't fucking stand you.   _We are not exclusive_.  I can fuck who ever I want to fuck and that's final," he yelled.  His voice had gone down a few octaves.  It did that when he was upset.

"You're so fucking clingy and you act as if we're a couple.  God damnit, Brendon, I'm fucking tired of this! All the fans think we're together,  _you_ think we're together.  I'm sick of you."  This time I was the one who was crying.  Not him.

"Ry," I whispered.

"No!" he screamed.  "None of your bullshit.  You listen to  _me_.  You need to fuck off or something because we were never  _something_.  We were just two people who fucked around a lot! Okay?"

"Ryan," I tried again.  He wouldn't listen to me.  He was drunk.  He was drunk.  He was drunk.  Right?

"No, you shut the fuck up.  I'm so--"

"Seattle," I replied.  We were supposed to move to Seattle.  And live a happy life.  We were supposed to love each other.

" _Fuck Seattle!_ That didn't mean anything to me and it shouldn't have to you.  It was a quick fuck, nothing more.  Holy shit, Brendon, can't you get it  _through your dense brain_ that  _we. Were. Nothing._ "

I could see the anger flash through his eyes, the eyes I had so lovingly stared into.  The neck I used to kiss.  The cheeks I used to wipe his tears away with.  He was about to leave me when I murmured, "I love you."

And he whipped around and looked me in the eyes.  "Shut the fuck up, Bren--"

"I love you," I said louder this time. He acted as if I didn't say anything at all.

"--don. Don't make this more than it is.  Don't make this harder for me.  I need--"

"I love you," I practically screamed at him.  _Why couldn't he hear me?  Why?  Why why why?_

"--space on my own and I need to figure some shit out and I need to do that--"

" _I love you_ ," I said, whilst grabbing his wrists and looking him straight in the eye.

He wrestled himself away and finally got sick of me.  Finally. "Would you  _stop fucking saying that? Because **I don't.**_  "  And I felt something break inside of me.  His face was red from yelling too much, but I saw tears flow down his face too.  That meant he was feeling something again.  He wasn't indifferent.  He felt something.  And that was enough for me.

Actually, no.  It wasn't enough for me. I wanted more.  I didn't want him to just feel, I wanted him to feel something for me.  "Say it back," I cried.  "Say it  _back_." **  
**

And then he just froze, a mix of terror and fear and sadness and guilt hinted in his eyes, until he said breathlessly, " **I can't.** "  And left me. _ **  
**_


	5. The Time I Didn't Say It Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't.

It was the time after our concert when we were celebrating the end of a festival and Spencer came over to my house.  We were doing some random shit, you know, talking, singing, playing the shit out of our drums.  In the midst of our fun and fucking about, Spencer gets a call.

He looks down at his phone and frowns.  His eyes glaze over the phone again and again, as if he were double checking his mind wasn't deceiving him.  "You okay, Spence?" I ask, a bit concerned now.  He bites his lip and nods, answering the call.

"H-hello?" he says into the speaker.  A few seconds go by and I see his eyes widen, shock and surprise filling them. 

I mouth,  _Who is it?_

He shakes his head and refuses to make eye contact with me.  After a few minutes of Spencer on the phone, he finally says in a somewhat strained voice, "I'm sorry, I-I can't help you.  I can't deal with that again.  F-fuck, Brendon helped me through it, man, you can't do it alone."

I tap my fingers against my leg and wait impatiently for him to fucking tell me who he is talking to when he then replies, "R-Ryan, I'm sorr--"

I tune the rest out.  Ryan. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan.  It's Ryan.

Immediately I sink into some sort of crisis.  My breathing quickens and my foot taps faster.  I rub my temple as I try to calm myself down, closing my eyes.  I hear Spencer say, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.  I-I'm not the right person for this.  Fuck, Ryan?  That fucker hung up on me."  I open my eyes and see Spencer giving me a concerned look.

"You okay, B?"

I let out a sarcastic laugh and ask, "You think I'm okay?  Does it  _look_ like I'm okay?  What did  _he_ need?"  I grit my teeth and shoot daggers into Spencer with my glare.  Spencer, who usually calls me out on my overly aggressive statements, instead just softens his gaze.  I see tears in his eyes and I stop glaring and send him a questioning look.  My mind immediately jumps to,  _What happened to Ryan?_

I ball my hands into fists and bite my lip, still waiting for Spencer.  "Spencer. Please."

"He needs help," he replies.

"Help?" What kind of fucking help does Ryan Ross need?

"Brendon, I--I...it's just not in my place to explain it.  Call him."  

I furrow my eyebrows and snarl, " _No!_ Why should I call him?"  Instead of responding to me, Spencer gives me this look--a desperate plea.  I roll my eyes, yet I can't deny the bubbling guilt and curiosity starting in my stomach. 

  
...

 

I excuse myself to the bathroom and lock the door, taking out my phone to call him.  When he answers, I don't even recognize his voice.  It's slurred and drunk, unclear and rough.  "B? Oh my God, Brendon, I--"

"What the fuck do you want, Ross?"  It comes out harsher than intended, but I was fucking angry.  He doesn't get to build me up, as if I'm just blocks in his sick little game, admire me for a couple hours, and decide that  _I'm no longer appealing to him and knock me down_.  I am not a toy he can play with.  I am not a pawn in his game.  I am not the boy who was head over heels for him anymore.

"Brendon, I need you," he whispers.  I can practically imagine his drunken form--his hair spluttered all over his face, the scruff growing untamed, the stench of alcohol emanating from him, his hazel eyes dulled and lifeless, like they always were when he was scared.  The desperation in his voice scares me.  He sounds so broken, so needing of someone.

I don't respond.

"Brendon," he begs, "I am not okay.  And I haven't been.  And I won't be.  I need help.  I need someone.  I need you."  The short breaths I hear from the earpiece and the quiet sobs in the back prove that this isn't another one of his stupid ploys to make me just some sex toy.  He  _needs_ me.  

And I can't help it when I slump down against the wall, cradling my phone as if it were him and whisper, "Baby, wh-what's wrong?"  I regret the words.  God, I do.

"I can't sleep anymore.  I don't have a sober moment ever.  I look in the mirror and I don't know who I see anymore.  I try writing music and it ends up as a desperate shout to the nonexistent gods to help me.   _I don't know who I am anymore_."

"Why would you call me?"

"Because you knew me better than I ever knew myself."  And I tried so hard.  I tried so hard to barricade myself in, pushing away all thoughts of Ryan, Ryan, Ryan.  But with that one sentence, it seemed like he blasted through that barrier.

But I can't.  And I feel the guilt consume me, eat away at my flesh, burn my skin, claw away at my brain, pull my hair.  "I can't."  I hope he remembers those two words.  The two words he said to me all those years ago. The two words that broke me.  The two words that caused me to spiral and question my identity.  The two words that made me question my sanity.  Who was I without Ryan Ross, the boy I had so desperately loved? And then I found myself.  I am Brendon Urie, the overconfident douchebag in that one-man band.  I am Brendon Urie, the boy who may or may not have dated Ryan Ross (according to the fans at least.)  I am Brendon Urie, a pig who thinks too highly of himself.  But they don't know.  They don't know why I had to become an egotistic little shit.  I act like one so I can at least  _pretend_ that I'm somewhat stable.   _Pretend_ that he didn't break me as much as he did.   _Pretend that **I'm**_ **okay**.

I hear his breath hitch over the phone and fuck, I can see his broken, lifeless form in a pool of his own vomit and tears.  The picture of that makes me want to scream, but  _I can't_.

"Y-you can't?  You can't what?"  But I'm not the only one who pretends.  Ryan pretends as if it never happened.  Ryan pretends  _he_  isn't the cause of all my suffering.  Ryan pretends he never said those two words.  That's why he asks me what I mean by 'I can't.'

"Ryan, y-you know what I mean.  Don't make this harder for me already.  I've finally fixed myself after you fucking broke me and I ca--"

"I love you."

And I freeze.  I take the phone away from my ear and stare at it, at the number I had memorized so well but never saved as a contact.  I inhale shakily and put the phone to my ear again.  " **What?** "

"I love you," he says again, and I can hear how hard it is for him to say it.  His voice trembles as he says it, I can hear his broken gasps for air and I can envision the salty tears dripping all around him. 

My voice gets softer and more gentle, not only trying to calm Ryan down, but myself.  My heart is thumping faster because, God, he knows how long I have been wanting to hear those three words from his mouth.  But I know.  I know he's just drunk.  I know he's just fucking with me.  I know he needs someone so badly that he'll say anything.  And so I close my eyes and whisper again, "I can't."

"B-Bren, no, please, no.  Don't do this to me, don't--fuck, what do I have to do?  I'll apologize over and over again, I just need  _someone, anyone,_ please, Spencer already turned me away and--"

Repetition is key.  "No, Ryan, I can't."

And he sobs again.  I can hear it.  He's not hiding it anymore.  It's loud, it's pathetic, it's heartwrenching.  Never in my life have I heard Ryan Ross cry this hard, this passionately, this sadly.

After what seems like minutes of straight cries he sniffles and whispers, "Bren, please, just this once, say it back to me and tell me it'll be okay.  Tell me I'll be okay." He seems more determined in his words.

 

...

 

And it's funny because this moment, this moment right here, could have been different if I had just said it back.  If I had just murmured under my breath, "I love you, too," then we'd be living a different life.  But I didn't.  And it's one of my biggest regrets.  Instead of responding to him, instead of giving him an answer, instead of just saying "I can't" one more goddamn time, I hang up on him.  And I stare at my phone, in awe, in regret, in sadness, in shock, I don't know.

I don't know what I regret more; loving Ryan Ross or not telling him I still loved him.  Should I have just taken the bullet instead of dodging him and turning him away? Maybe. Should I just have pushed away all the morals I had regained in the span of six years and tell him I still loved him?  Maybe.

Perhaps we'd be different.  We would be holding hands with silver bands on our ring fingers, saying "I love you" back and forth with no shame.  We would be buying a house together, playing guitar together, coming out in front of our fans saying, "It's true."  But no.  I had Sarah.  And eventually, Ryan found Helena.

But the day after that eventful night, Spencer came to me the next day and slapped me.  Right across the face.  And he yelled, "He fucking  _trusted you_!  He went to  _us_ when he had  _ **no one**_ _ **left**_ and you fucking turned him down."

I screamed back, red blurring my vision, "Hey asshole! Don't forget you fucking did it, too."

"Yeah, but he doesn't love  _me_ Brendon, he loves you!"  And I winced, I winced because he used present tense, showing that Ryan still loved me and I  _knew_  that I loved him, too, but Spencer and Ryan didn't have to know that.  I could just keep it bottle inside of me.  It would eventually disappear, just like Ryan did from my life.

So yeah, that's my biggest regret.  Not saying it back.  Because there is now always that "What if?" nudging me in the back of my mind.  Do I still love him?  I don't know.  Does he still love me? I don't know. Will we ever love each other again? I don't know.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Thanks for reading this! Please leave comments//feedback because I'm really curious on people's thoughts of this. The main "phrase" I circled this around is "I can't." It's always been an interesting phrase to me. Because by the word can't, it means you are physically and emotionally restrained from doing something. It's different than "I won't." or "I don't." 
> 
> This kind of just formed around the fact that when Zack was talking in a periscope he said something about only hugging Brendon two or three times since Brendon only hugged people when he needed it or truly cared. So, I decided that maybe Ryan had something similar except it was with crying. (I couldn't make that Brendon because Brendon cries so easily, as proven by the periscopes.)
> 
> Anyway, yeah, thanks guys.


End file.
